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I think another inch will be coming later this morning, making it probably close to three inches in the second week of June. Weed whacker symphonies to come, but very, very happy trees.
In the happy noise of rain on my nearly extinct roof, I was contemplating my alarm about the third resignation over the approval of a new Alzheimer's drug and trying not to just conclude that we will never have proper clinical trials for any medicines ever again, but, well, I don't think I have any real control over that conclusion anymore... unless I devote myself to undoing all the hard work of seeing truth and accepting that it is the truth.
I think they are actively trying to kill us to get us out of their hair, and putting us to work as lab rats on our way out. We will die in the cause of medical advances for anyone who lives through their attentions.
I'll leave you to puzzle it out for yourself, if you are so inclined, but the big news here is: The Fort Dick Market may have poisoned me again.
I was fine, or as fine as it gets these days, all day yesterday, but about an hour after consuming a couple of their chicken tenders that are actually chicken and tender, hunks of breast meat lightly breaded and seasoned, I suddenly became overheated and needing to throw open all windows and the one still-functioning door, then strip, and noticing my stomach was hurting and it began filtering into my brain that this is the herald of that.
What's that, you may ask? Barfing my toes up... and my dinner.
I never take it as gospel that I will barf because I really hate barfing SO much that I will try to man it back down, but I have learned that liberal amounts of Lugol's Solution will very frequently kill whatever's making my guts that angry before the ordeal strikes. Not last night.
I've gotten good at this. I never use the toilet for this anymore because it's too hard for me to get off the floor at any time these days, let alone when I'm stark naked, soaked with sweat over my whole body, slippery as fuck, and trying to get my toes back down to my feet from my throat.
So I sit on the edge of my bed and barf into a wastebasket instead. Still wretched and miserable, but nothing like as bad as going the toilet route. I hurled into the basket five truly epic streams of almost completely liquified dinner, followed by about a pint of slime, and quickly the ten alarm emergency ebbed back to feeling "fine".
One marvels at the sudden turning of all bodily functions to the project of expelling the completely unacceptable. I have had personal disasters of a non-gastronomic nature that elicited the same response, but it's mostly only when there is a bacterium of completely unacceptable nature somewhere on my food.
The sudden feeling of being too warm, not getting enough air, followed by full-body sweating and noticeably increased salivation is the bodily systems switching to militia mode. Truly. Blood much less interested in pumping, lungs distracted from breathing, pores opening up to spit out cell water so they can all turn their attention to the paroxysms needed to evict the enemy is some kind of miracle of biology akin to a grand ballet.
We're usually just too damn wretched to appreciate it is all.
pipe up any time....
